


Where the ashes lay

by FortuneFaded2012



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins
Genre: Character Death, Cross-Generational Friendship, Family, Love, Painting
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-11-10
Updated: 2017-11-13
Packaged: 2018-01-01 02:54:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,053
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1039498
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FortuneFaded2012/pseuds/FortuneFaded2012
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>At nearly eighty-eight years of age Katniss Mellark loses the love of her life. She finds a companion in her grand-daughter Dani, who undertakes an artistic adventure when she begins to replicate her grand-father's paintings. As they journey through a world without Peeta, each of them begins to grow in their understanding of a man who saw beauty in even the darkest of times.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Where the ashes lay

I've had a whole night's rest and my body still aches. I can appreciate that my body is falling apart though. I never thought I would live long enough to say I'm nearly ninety.

One month from today I will be eighty-eight years old. It is a blessed thought to have nearly tripled the lifespan I would have likely had in the olden days of my childhood district. My body is surely weathered by time and hardship, but Peeta still adores it and I adore his too. We are both nearing the end and Peeta's mind slips away from him more these days. He's content to be alive though. I'm happy too, blissfully so.

I open my eyes to peer at the rays of light seeping through the window. Its open just a crack and the air in the room feels brisk with the fresh April day. I rise up and reach for my robe, folded on the nightstand where I left it before bed. Peeta is quiet behind me, still quite sound asleep. _He needs a good rest_. I feel my knees pop as I stand up and wrap the robe tightly around my frail body. I find my slippers kicked precariously next to the bed and slip them on to go put a hot water kettle on the stove.

 _This seems like a morning for some mint tea_ , I smile as I smell the fresh dewey air wafting in from our open window. I close the door as quietly as I can, then I run my wrinkled hand on the smooth railing as I walk slowly down the stairs, humming to myself. The tea is on a lower shelf than it used to be. I started to have trouble reaching it and finally came to terms with the fact that I needed a bit of cupboard re-organization. Bodies do strange things as they age. Peeta never liked the idea of me standing on a chair to reach anything, a completely ridiculous idea in my opinion.

After the kettle whistles impatiently I pour my cup and sit at the table looking out at the misty fog that covers our lawn. _It's a beautiful morning_ , I think. I drink my tea remembering the walk I had with Peeta yesterday morning. When the warm soothing liquid has been finished I set my cup aside. I'll have more when Peeta and I have breakfast.

I busy myself making toast and eggs, nipping a bite here and there before I prepare a tray to bring up to Peeta. The bread is a hearty wheat loaf that Peeta made yesterday. I hum lowly as I climb the stairs. The cups and plates clink together as I walk. I push our bedroom door open with my shoulder. Peeta is still huddled under the blankets. His wide shoulders are just visible above the old quilt.

Gingerly, I place the tray on our dresser and make my way to his sleeping figure. I bend to kiss his smiling lips, ready to whisper my _good morning_ and find that Peeta's lips are cold and stiff. He doesn't stir as I press a palm into his shoulder and shake him. He doesn't open his eyes as I press my ear to his heart. I'm met with only silence from within and the scratching sounds of his sleep-shirt against my ear. My hands shake as I press them to his face. His eyes are closed, a smile still settled on his lips.

I feel numb, confused, and unsure of myself. I realize I've been staring at him for several moments when my heart suddenly lurches in my chest. I slide to my knees beside the bed, gripping for his rigid cold hand. I kiss it softly before I press my face into the blankets.

 _He's gone_ , I realize.

_He's really gone. Just like that._

_Peacefully, in his sleep,_ I wonder at the fortune of such a quiet death. _He deserved it_.

I begin to cry, because he left me and deep down inside I wish I had gone with him. "Damn it, Peeta. Damn you for leaving me without a goodbye. When I see you again, I'm going to smack you before I kiss you," I grit out.

I cry harder when I realize he is _never_ coming back. I cry over the beauty of his ordinary death. He didn't die in war, in the arena, or because of his own madness. He just simply slipped into sleep, _smiling_. It is everything he ever wanted in a death. Nothing fancy, nothing painful, lying beside me.

Hours later I rise, slide into some clothes, press a kiss to his cold cheek and silently close the door. I walk mindlessly to my daughter's home. She and her husband Marcus built the majestic log structure on my family's old land in the Seam. My vision keeps blurring as I walk along the roadway. A car passes, honking. The driver waves at me. I see the smiling face, but my mind can't register who it is. _Not now._

Avery and Marcus have flowers popping up by their porch. I stare at them as I knock on the large wooden door. It' April, these rains should be bringing May flowers. They're early bloomers. My grand-daughter Dani answers the door with a wide swoop, immediately kissing my cheek as she bids me "Good morning Gran!" I close my eyes and nod my hello. _I wish she weren't home. Isn't it a school day? Maybe it's Saturday?_ I've lost sense of the day already. Yesterday was such a relaxing day. Peeta and I took a walk along the tree-line and visited Delly in town, her husband Thom passed only a 5 months ago.

"What are you doing here so early?" Dani asks as she follows me into the house, closing the door with a snap. She was eating breakfast in the little nook in the kitchen. Toast and jam it looks like. I watch her sit back down and take a bite as she reads a book. She is young and full of life. She is so young and yet so unrestricted. _She is safe._

"I need to see your mama," it's all I can manage around the lump in my throat.

"Well here I am," Avery turns into the kitchen behind me, folding her hair up in a braid.

"Morning Ma, how are you?" She asks happily. Her dog trails her on lazy legs. Peeta bought her that old mutt before Dani was born, he must be going on 15 years now. He follows her down to her butcher shop every morning and waits patiently for a few scrap bones to chew. He's a scraggly thing that never took to kindly to me.

I look up at my daughter's pleasant face, her hair salt and pepper with age. Instantly I can see her recognize that something is off. She quickly ties back her hair and steps forward to rest her palms on my shoulders.

"What is it?" She asks earnestly. I close my eyes for a brief moment and swallow the bile in my throat.

"Your father. I need you to come home with me. He…" I feel the tears seeping down my face as I lose track of my sentence. Avery's beautiful blue eyes fill with tears; it's almost as though she knows exactly what I'm going tell her. _She's been waiting for a day like this hasn't she?_

"He what Mama?" She asks hoarsely. I hear Dani's chair scrape the floor as she stands up, but I can't look away from my daughter's eyes. Peeta's eyes, stunning corn-flower blue.

"He went into the stars to be with all those who left him behind," I whisper as my daughter slides her hands down my arms and grips my shaking palms. Peeta used to tell her bedtime stories where the man in the moon watched over her while she slept and the stars were all the loved ones who are waiting for us to join them. When she was older she learned who they all were, about the Games, the War, the bombing, and our families.

The tears have spilled down her cheeks. Dani's thin arms have wrapped around us both. We all shake as waves of overwhelming sorrow begin to take their hold. I can hear Dani sniffling as she presses her soft cheek close to mine. She's a lovely girl; she always said she wanted to someday be a painter like her grandfather. Peeta had loved teaching her to blend colors. He had doted on her like all the grandchildren before her.

"He went away and he didn't say good-bye, but he's happy I just know it," I choke out finally. I feel my daughter nod.

"He's up there greeting them all with hugs and kisses. He'll be telling stories about us for weeks," Avery laughs through her tears. She presses a kiss to my forehead and then to her youngest daughter's.

* * *

Somehow I survive hours of alerting my family, going back for Peeta's body, and preparing for his funeral. There are so many people to call. _So many friends and relatives, have you numbered the people you've left behind Peeta like you've numbered those stars above?_ I begin to forget what I'm doing and who needs me next. Avery forces food into me around mid-day, just before the press arrives. Everything reminds me of the bland tesserae bread I ate as a girl and I know that has nothing to do with my daughter's cooking.

Immediately there is a swarm of advisers and government officials at my home. Aiding me, preparing me, and making me feel as though I am readying for a third round of the Games. It's all too fast and nothing seems like the Peeta we had all known. They want to honor him in a grand show. Thousands of people will flock to see his burial. The idea makes me cringe.

I leave the room and hide away in the upstairs closet, feigning that I need to use the rest room. The coats skim just above my head and I shove most of the shoes to one side of the small space. After a few hours I find myself crying and laughing at once. This feels like when I was waiting for Peeta in District 13, losing myself in dark spaces where no one would come looking. I drift into a strange semi-consciousness, leaning against the wall.

Asa's youngest daughter, Lorie, opens the door to my dark hiding place sometime before dinner, "I found her!" She shouts over her shoulder. I blink my eyes blearily at the bright light of the hallway.

Lorie kneels beside me in the closet and holds my hands for a moment. For a girl in her last year of high school she has always been wiser than most, the kind of wise that a girl her age would have been back in the old times. _Maybe there are things about her that came from me in that way._

She gives my hands two squeezes, "I found you," she says softly.

"Gran, you were starting to scare everyone. We weren't sure where you ran off to," She bites her lip as she reaches up to stroke my cheek. Her hands are clammy. I feel guilt well up in my chest over worrying them all.

"I'm sorry to scare you dear," I tell her honestly.

She shakes her head, "No, it's alright. I knew you needed some time. Dad was a little upset though. He thought you had wandered out into the woods alone." I smirk at this statement. My son, for whatever reason has thought that in my old age I am not fit to walk in _my_ woods without assistance.

"Sometimes your father is too worrisome. Help me up, my old bones can't do it on their own," I pat her shoulder and raise my hands for her to pull. She guides me back into a standing position and doesn't let go of my hand as we walk back downstairs.

Dani greets us on the bottom threshold, ready to grasp my other hand. My girls guide me to a seat at the dining room table where someone has prepared all sorts of foods. _I wonder if the neighbors have already started to deliver their condolences casseroles?_ I muse. Dinner tastes bland and I pick at the food more than I eat it. I try to manage a few smiles when a new family member arrives. It's all too much though. Eventually I let Avery guide me to my bedroom. She kisses my cheek and asks whether she should stay. Of course I tell her there is no need.

I hear people making beds for themselves in other rooms. Children scurrying about, babies crying, the house hasn't been so alive since our 68th wedding anniversary.

I lay awake staring at Peeta's side of the bed. Even with the window wide open it feels nothing like the bedroom that I shared with my husband for so many years. I'm adrift in a sea that I don't recognize, though the scenery is the same. It feels like I've lost my compass.

_It feels like I will never set foot on land again._

* * *

During a eulogy, a good orator turns a person's life into a beautiful simplistic story that ebbs and flows with happiness and good deeds. That is not the type of eulogy that my husband needs, because his life wasn't always honest and tranquil. All I can think as this red-haired young man begins to recount my husband's long life is that if he were still alive he'd shoot the man. _He'd tell his own story with the honesty it deserves. He wouldn't paint over the cracked colors of his portrait._

"We lay to rest this great man with sadness in our hearts, but praise the work that he has done for our people and our nation," the man is no older than 20, a popular television host from the newest series, elected as the voice of this "devastating national loss". I wonder why we never earned the right to live as free people, when our country was given its independence. Peeta's death is a _national loss_ , not the loss of an average citizen of New Panem. Not the loss of an average husband, father, or friend.

 _Even in death he can't claim his independence_ , I think angrily.

"Peeta Mellark was a hero in every sense of the word, his legacy paved the way for new policies and…" The man's voice is soothing, but a soft voice isn't the story-teller of Peeta's life. I am the voice of his life, rugged and weathered like the leather of my father's old hunting jacket.

I close my eyes and inhale a long slow breath before I push my aged body upward to stand before this crowd of thousands. People have come to see him buried who may have never met him, but feel they have been touched by the life he lived. A small part of me is grateful for this, but a larger part just wants it all to stop.

I wonder how many of them would still be here if he had never been glorified by our poor circumstance. _If we were just two humble people from District 12 who found each other against all odds, would there be this many mourners at his grave?_

"Gran?" The fresh voice of my oldest great grand-son, Ryan, questions me as I move forward from the row of grey chairs. I reach my hand back and pat his cheek to show him everything is alright.

I briefly glance into the piercing blue eyes of my daughter to his left and see the poignant gratitude that I am about to put a stop to this farce. She nods permission before I slowly make my way toward the man at the podium. She wraps her arm around her grandson, patting his shoulder as I walk away.

The man looks down at me as I approach the little stage, questions in his eyes as he mechanically reads his grand speech. He's probably wondering why I am deviating from this elaborate schedule of speeches and tributes. All designed to glorify the man I love, like some sort of martyr of peace and revolution.

I climb the steps with heavy feet, long since too loud to hunt in the forest. I raise one hand up as I reach the top, halting the man's speech as I align myself beside him. Immediately he falls away from the microphone and the crowd of prying eyes focuses on my wrinkled face. A face they have grown to know without my desire or support.

"I've had quite enough of this," I sigh as I place both hands on the podium's sides, "Peeta would not want this grand show, this Capitol designed soap-opera with painted faces."

I look toward my family and the people surrounding them are the closest friends and confidants that Peeta and I shared, those who are still living. I find the courage to say how I feel as I look into their eyes. The shades of truth in them, the fear and desperation of the lives they shared with my husband. These are the real stories of our life. _The real voices._

"Even in death, you've tried to make this man into a person he was never meant to be. Acting as though he was some great manor house, ignoring his age and faults. Painting over cracks in the façade of the life we built. If Peeta were a great edifice, he was supported by a crumbling foundation of lies and false hopes. Everything that he was as a tangible person and everything that he represents are two _very_ different things," my son Asa, every bit the image of my husband, smiles bitterly as I say my peace.

"The real tragedy of his death is that he never got to live the peace of an average man. The real tragedy is that my children never got to know the entirety of their father's love. My husband was a man broken by this country and if you believe that you love him, then you can honor him by leaving this ceremony. My family would like to grieve his death on our terms. Please respect our wishes." The crowd begins to rumble, cameras clicking rapidly, voices shouting their dislike. I shake my head at the din.

Quietly, I step away from the microphone and begin to make my way toward the casket that contains Peeta's remains. It is a large wooden carved box nestled on a bed of satin, surrounded by flowers and greenery. It is some Capitol custom to burry remains below the Earth, something that I am not content to allow. _Peeta deserves more than being buried under the dirt that consumed so many lives when our district's primary killer was the mine._ To be buried was the biggest fear for us as children.

I stare down at the smooth mahogany of the box wondering if I loved the man inside enough to heal him. _Did I give you the life that you deserved Peeta?_ I feel the smooth hands of my daughter sliding around my body as she envelopes me in a hug, placing her head on my shoulder. Her hair is mixed with silver now, no longer lengthy strands of curling ebony.

When she became a grandmother Peeta and I knew that we were blessed to still be living. We outdid the statistics of our childhood district by simply living to see our first grandchild. The concept of great-grandchildren was foreign and that of a fairytale. We never dreamed that we would have our own family, but each year the branches and roots of our tree grow and reach for the sun. Our children and our children's children are filled with such hope and beauty.

"Mama, you did right by him in the end. You loved him when the odds were stacked against you. You two did good, you know that right?" Avery's voice is much like my sister's was, clear and crisp. When she was a small child, sometimes she would scare me. How similar she was to Prim…it was unnerving. It still shakes me to hear my sister's voice through my daughter's mouth.

"I know baby, we made _you_ ," I kiss her forehead softly as I wrap one arm around her waist, "Asa too. You both made us happier than we ever dreamed of being."

Asa and the rest of the family join us beside Peeta's casket. I can feel several sets of eyes watching me, looking for my strength and guidance. I lean forward and run my fingertips across the wood that encases my love. It's mahogany, like the table that we dined on in our train-car so many years ago. Effie's shrill voice rises in my mind, something I haven't heard in nearly 25 years. I close my eyes against the thoughts of Peeta's sheer enjoyment over his torture of our poor escort through well-placed words of sarcasm.

My voice quivers slightly as I clear my throat to speak, "I'd like to cremate him, and he'd rather be ash than be buried in this monstrosity."

I look up at Asa and he nods his acceptance of my wish. "No one in 12 ever wanted to be buried," I say vaguely. I feel Avery patting my back.

After that, the logistics of the day melt into a misty haze of action. Until I find myself staring at an urn full of my husband's ashes. I sit at the kitchen table drinking a hot cup of tea as I grapple with the idea that Peeta's body is no longer whole. That Peeta is gone and has been now for 4 days. My house is full of noisy children, flowers, and _condolences_ casseroles.

Yet, I sit alone at the table, staring at a silver container that encases what remains of my husband.

It takes me a long while to realize I'm crying.

* * *

"Do you want the ashes to go up here on the mantle Ma?" Asa is trying to be helpful and find a more permanent home for Peeta's ashes. It's been 9 days and I still feel like my compass is lost. I'm floating around life hazily in a fog. There are moments of clarity when the children come to me, but most days are hazy.

Asa stands in the living room appraising the space on the fireplace's mantle. He has already considered the bookshelves and the windowsills. Neither of which met whatever standard he is looking for. I am content to leave Peeta in the place where he did all his baking. I figure I'll humor my son though; he has a point about the kitchen table being a bit of an improper place for a dead body, e _ven if that body is nothing but ash._

Asa shifts some picture frames and a flower pot aside. I haven't watered the damn plant since the day before Peeta left. Asa frowns at the wilting leaves before he places Peeta's urn in the center of the mantle.

"How is that Ma?" He asks. He stands back, crossing his arms with his palm against his chin. He nods minutely before he looks back at me. His face softens as he takes in my lost expression.

"Ma, you alright?" I nod and achieve a small smile for him.

"I like it honey, your father would scoff at being the center of attention. He'd secretly like it though," I say as my son places an arm around my shoulder. We stare at the urn for several minutes, silently looking at the man we both loved.

Asa squeezes my shoulder as he walks into the kitchen. I hear the tap running before he returns with some water for the plant. "I'll make you lunch, and then I can mow the grass. It's looking tall," Asa says as he empties the glass of water into the pot.

"Sounds lovely," I say.

I sit on the couch and watch Peeta's urn until it is time to eat. Like every day before this one, the food tastes like paper. I tell Asa that it tastes divine, for his sake. He smiles, glad to care for me. It's what keeps his mind off things. Soon he'll be heading home to be with his wife though and I'll be here for the night.

I don't like them all worrying over me, so I give him a hearty smile as he waves good-bye.

* * *

On day 14 I watch my grand-daughter kneeling in the middle of the yard, her little blue coat dangling over the edge of her bright red boots. She seems oblivious to the rain, staring off into the mountains that loom above the tree line. The mountains were renamed when the district was officially resurveyed, but I never cared to find out how that all turned out. Now they are a national park and the hunting is restricted to only certain areas where people won't get accidently shot or maimed in any way. A pity really, but New Panem wants places where people can get fresh air and relaxation, "make new memories" they had always said on the news in the years following The War.

Dani has unruly russet colored curls that have always flown wildly about her, today is no exception. Of all my grandchildren she is the most like me in temperament, but so much of her is pure Peeta. She was an unexpected baby. Avery was blessed with her at the age of 42 when her oldest daughter was going off to study at college. The oldest has her own kids now too, my great-grandchildren. The oldest of which recently turned nine. Just thinking of it all makes me smile. Peeta was so happy to be surrounded by such a large brood.

Dani tilts her head slightly to the right, holding her left hand out as though she is measuring something. I'm happily bemused now, wondering what on Earth she is up to. She steps four paces to her right and promptly lies on her belly, still looking up at the mist and cloud-covered mountains. I watch her small hands frame her vision as if she were taking a photograph. She pulls herself onto her knees and removes something red from her pocket. She forces it into the soft earth and stands above it with a look of satisfaction.

She must finally sense me watching her, because she swivels on her leg and looks toward me. I've been rocking in my chair on the porch for the past ten minutes, enjoying the drizzle and the way the muggy air is beginning to chill from the rain.

We meet eyes, considering each other as we often do. When she walks toward me, it begins to rain harder. She shields her eyes with one hand and hurries her pace, splashing in puddles that haven't soaked into the earth yet. She stomps the mud off her boots as she trudges up the stairs.

I nod a greeting at her as she whisks excess water from her coat and shakes her unruly mane. She smiles affectionately at me, a Peeta smile, bright and warm with a dimple in the right cheek. That smile is a gift Peeta has passed onto her alone. She gingerly sits in the rocking chair adjacent to me. We rock silently for several minutes, content in watching water pour in rivets off the porch's overhang.

"Now Dani, when your uncle comes to trim the lawn will he have to remove that?" I ask, looking at the little red object peeking up through the grass.

"It's a flag on a stake, a marker to save my spot," she replies rocking slowly forward and back.

"A marker for what?"

She peers at me for a moment, her blue eyes unable to hide the apprehension she feels, "I'm marking a place to do a painting."

I smile softly, "Well, warn Uncle Asa before he runs over it with the mower blades." I chuckle thinking of my often absentminded son. I can picture the fiasco vividly already. Dani usually enjoys a laugh at her uncle's expense, but her mind seems to be off somewhere else. She continues to rock, staring off into the distance.

"Gran, I've been doing something without asking you and the more I work at it, the more I feel that I need your blessing," she nibbles her lip, looking down at the porch floorboards.

"Well, what is it love?" I ask her softly. Whatever it is, it can't be worth the heartache she seems to be having over it. She's fourteen, the biggest worries she should have are grades and friendships.

"I was looking through the attic and I found a box full of Grandpa's artwork. Things from when he was a young man," she looks up at me with glistening eyes.

"I know I shouldn't have kept looking, but I wanted a little part of his life. There were so many beautiful things and seeing the world through his eyes…well, it helps when I miss him."

"I don't mind at all Dani, you can look at whatever you want," I tell her honestly. She stops rocking suddenly, bending forward to place her elbows on her knees. The position leans her closer to me. There is pain on her face and I start to feel as though I know where this is leading.

"The thing is…that there are a lot of things I'm not sure Grandpa would have wanted me to see. From when he was very sick and…before those even, things from the games -" I lean forward, mirroring her position and cutting her off.

"Dani, listen. I've locked those things away because they are hard for me to endure sometimes; when I feel strong I look at them. Right now I am still learning to cope with Grandpa being gone," I reach my hand forward to grip her soft palm in mine. She squeezes back instantly.

I tap our clasped hands with my other wrinkled palm, "If the things in the attic help you, then I want you to continue learning about the man that Grandpa has always been. The world has always been beautiful through his eyes, even in the most terrible times. He saw the beauty."

"Thanks Gran. The second part is that I need your permission to continue something I've started. I got an idea, seeing all the places that he has been. They're places I can go too. I took one of his paintings of the lake. I found the exact spot where Grandpa had sat and I've been replicating it. How it looks in present day," she smiles, her Peeta showing as she must drift back to the memory of sharing a moment in time with her grandfather. A moment they never shared as he lived.

"I've been thinking that I will do the same thing with some of his other paintings, like a journey of sorts. Showing how things have changed," her eyes look hopeful, yet timid.

I don't let her light fade. Instead I smile warmly at her and pull her hand up to my lips so that I can kiss the other gift that Peeta has given her, gentle patient artist hands, "I have never heard a better idea in my whole life. You have my permission love; I wouldn't keep you from this for all the cheese buns in the world."

"Not even if there was chocolate sauce to dip it in?"

"Nope, not even then, though I may be tempted," I joke.

She snorts and squeezes my hand once more before I let her go. We both fall back into our chairs and commence our rocking.

"Can we keep this a secret between us?" She asks softly after several silent minutes. I raise my eyebrows, but nod.

"I want to wait and show everyone when I'm ready," she reasons.

 _When will any of us ever be ready to let Peeta go? Never. At least not for me._ This is her way of dealing with it, a cathartic artistic adventure. It is such a Peeta thing to do that I can't help but embrace it.

When it begins to get close to dinner time Dani rises from her chair and kisses me softly on the cheek. She bids me goodnight and begins to walk down the steps.

"Dani," she stops and turns, gripping the railing. In this dimming light I'm struck with how beautiful she is. A warm pride flourishes in my chest.

"He'd want you to know everything that happened to him, how it really made him feel. If there is anything that you want to know, bring your questions here. We'll work on our heartache together."

She nods, her curls waving around her in the breeze, "Goodnight Gran, I love you." I smile and watch her travel down the gravel road until she disappears around the bend.


	2. Faded scars

I’ve left the door to Peeta’s art studio closed for weeks, unable to set foot in the most sacred place he ever made his own. Peeta left nearly three weeks ago. Today, I woke with the feeling that I just needed to spend time in his place. I thought about it throughout breakfast, as I sipped my coffee, and as I brushed my teeth.

It took me half the day to work my nerves under control and walk to the door at the end of our hallway. Perhaps it was the conversation with Dani that fueled this need to be a part of that world again. This need to be immersed in the things that haunted my husband and the things that lifted him up, it’s almost consumed me, or at least my thoughts.

The white door isn’t menacing, but I stare at it feeling a skipping beat in my heart and a flush on my face. I shakily turn the silver doorknob and automatically my hand rises to flip the light switch as I enter. _A habit I guess_. Everything is exactly the way that he left it. Supplies neatly organized, finished works stuffed into every crevice. The same paintings hung on the walls.

It’s overwhelmingly too clean. I want Peeta to walk in the door and throw himself into a new project. Anything, I’d even acquiesce to letting him paint me for the thousandth time. I wouldn’t put up a fight like always. _I’d give anything to just watch him work once more._

I fall into a leaning position against one of the shelves and glance around the room looking for something, searching for whatever my heart desires to find here. My body is shaky with age and my weakened heart needs a rest. I close my eyes as I lean against the shelves. I breathe in and out slowly until I can sense the calm melting through my bones.

I know I’ve been drawn here for a reason today. I just don’t know what the purpose is. I gingerly open my eyes and instantly they latch onto a particular project. I stare at the painting above the table across the room.

My grey eyes stare back at me, a slight curve to my lips, an almost smile. Peeta painted it a few years after we grew back together, before we were married. I recognize some of the features of my family in my face; my mother’s nose and mouth, my father’s eyes, the shape of Prim’s chin. I see my own children and grandchildren in the lines and curves.

None of these people share the jagged stretched skin of my scars though. Peeta didn’t omit them from the portrait. The scars were still fairly fresh then, reddish-pink skin, taught yet wrinkled on the edges. Now those same scars are a lightened pink, almost white at times.

Set with all my other features I realize why Peeta would stare at me so thoughtfully, why his kisses lingered on my cheeks and his fingers gingerly memorized every inch.

“I can see that beauty you always swore was there Peeta,” I whisper as I appraise my image, stepping closer to the portrait.

“Too bad you didn’t hang any up of yourself,” I chuckle as I look around further.

I spend the afternoon rummaging through Peeta’s more recent finished works, crying, laughing, and crying some more. I can almost feel the way he would criticize a piece, or the way he’d insist that he wasn’t adding flourish to the images of me. He said he only painted the truth, but sometimes I was skeptical of his view of me and I still am. _Even after all of these years_.

Some of the most recent paintings have a vibrant ethereal quality about them, brought on by the quivering in Peeta’s aged hands. The shaky lines and blended colors are the last works he ever made.

The long day wears me out both emotionally and physically. Finding sleep is hard as I lay in bed, splaying my hand over the empty space beside me. I close my eyes and imagine Peeta’s weight sagging the mattress. Eventually I drift into a land of hazy dreams where Dani and Peeta are painting side by side along the shore of the lake.

Their laughter puts my heart at ease.

* * *

 

I wake later than usual. The sun is already merrily shining through the trees and I watch a squirrel scurry up the willow’s trunk next to my bedroom window. I rest against the pillows, watching the animal wildly run and jump from branch to branch, like a mountain goat traversing precarious cliffs. As my eyes follow the small nimble body, I recall the days when I could shoot three or four of them in an hour. I always got the best trade for them at the bakery. I can still hear the young timber of Peeta’s voice in my memory, “ _My father buys her squirrel. He always comments on how the arrows never pierce the body. She hits every one in the eye.”_

I have left the windows open nearly every night, a homage to Peeta, and last night was no different. With the chill of the air, I had contemplated closing it. But, I couldn’t do it. It felt like something of a betrayal, as though it would be shutting Peeta’s spirit out. So, I had slept with two blankets, burrowed in the middle of the bed.

The squirrel scuttles out of sight and reminds me that I should get moving as well. I gingerly rise and dress for the day, choosing a pair of soft trousers and a well-worn shirt. Morning birds call their cheerful greetings as I walk down the staircase and into the kitchen for a cup of hot mint tea. From the moment I opened my eyes this morning; I knew that I would be calling Dani today. I eat a quick breakfast of eggs with a piece of thick leftover ham before reaching for the phone.

After three rings, my son-in-law Marcus picks up the phone, “Hello, this is Marc.”

My daughter had always been a great hunter and an even better fisher. Peeta encouraged her to pursue those loves and find a way to make a living from them. Since there are now limits on hunting and fishing game. She chose to go to college in District 4, pursuing a Small Business Administration degree, staying with Annie and Jo while she took her courses.

At the end of her two year degree, Jo took her on a mini-vacation to a summer festival in District 7. That’s where she met Marcus Lorenz. They kept in touch, writing over the course of the year before they married here in 12. They built a house on the land where my family once lived in the Seam and now they own a butcher shop in the village. Where my Avery is dark and fiery, Marcus is good-natured and gentle. They complement each other perfectly.

“Hello Marcus, is Dani home?” I clear my throat, feeling the excited nerves ebb their way into my chest, burrowing in to gnaw and bruise. I’m ripe with anticipation, taut like a bow string ready to release.

“Hey Ma, how goes it today?” He asks, before turning from the phone to holler to his daughter.

I feel genuine happiness as I respond, “It’s a good day. Cold night last night wasn’t it?”

“Yeah, your crazy daughter insisted we leave the window open again,” he laughs.

I smirk, thinking about how Avery used to crack her window as a small child to be like her daddy and how when she grew she had become so used to it, that she couldn’t stand it being closed. “ _You can’t hear the birds or night peepers if you close it”_ , she would protest.

“Well, have a good day. Here’s Dani,” his smile can be heard in his voice, such a kind man always lively and good-humored like my Peeta was. I’ve always loved him as my own.

“Gran? Did you need something?” Dani asks as she takes the phone from her father.

“As a matter of fact, yes! I’ve got something for you to paint!” I can barely contain my excitement. The taut bowstring in my chest releases its anticipation and quivers, vibrating pleasantly. The flutter it leaves within my heart is such a lovely contrast to the tense weight that settles when thoughts of Peeta consume me.

“Really?!” Dani exclaims on the other end, “What is it?” I smile as I try to imagine her expression.

I ponder whether I should tell her or keep it a surprise and settle on the latter, “You’ll see when you get here. Hurry up little gosling.” I laugh and hang up the phone without bidding her goodbye.

I want to prepare the art station for her. I hurry up the stairs, well at least as best I can with my old bones. I organize the supplies that I think she may want and position a fresh canvas on the mount. I feel like a mother-goose preparing her nest of grass and down along the shoreline, settling each important material into the perfect place. I run a shaky hand through my hair, feeling the jitters quiver once more. I smile, satisfied with my work, and lean against the wall to rest a moment.

* * *

 

About 15 minutes later the front door swings open, _I really ought to oil that hinge,_ I remind myself.

“Gran, you upstairs?” Dani’s voice floats up to me, willowy like the wind.

“I’m in Grandpa’s studio, come right up!”

Her light feet climb the old wooden stairs quickly. She offers me a gigantic smile as she comes into the doorway, her dimple on full display. The beaming brightness spreads across her face like the sun rising in the East. She bends to give me a quick kiss on the cheek before glancing around the room eagerly.

“So, what is it that you want me to paint?” She asks, looking around the room once more, the excitement bursting forth. I take a deep breath and point to the portrait of myself. Her eyes drift toward the painting and she inhales a gentle breath.

“Oh Gran, it’s stunning,” she says softly as she approaches the wall. She stares at it for some time, seemingly examining the intricate brush-strokes.

“Tell me about it,” she finally says.

I approach, standing at her side with my hands clasped at my heart. My mind drifts back, searching for the right words to describe that time. I was still having nightmares then, innocently sleeping alongside Peeta.

Peeta and I were emerging from the rubble of a past life as fresh versions of ourselves. We were stretching up toward the sun as feeble as seedlings springing through thick forest ashes, learning to traverse the world like newborn fawns on shaky legs. We were growing together.

He was a very dear friend to me then, not quite a lover, but someone more important to me than anyone else. _My_ dandelion in the spring.

I unclasp my hands, instead taking one of Dani’s small smooth palms into my ragged one, “Peeta said that we were _growing back together_ like two rosebuds that had suffered through a hard winter. I always thought we were more like unsteady fawns, experiencing their first real Spring.”

My eyes roam over Dani’s face, smiling at her expression, a look of visualization that I sometimes witnessed in her grandfather, “I was 20 years old. He was my best friend. We were not in love, but so very fond of each other. He would stare at me for hours and one day he asked me to sit for this painting.”

I run my thumb over the smooth patch of skin on the back of her hand, Dani watches our clasped hands absently as I continue, “It took a few days and as he painted he told me stories about when he was a very young boy. I told him stories about when I was a very young girl. When he was done, I was mortified that he had painted the scars. Now though, I see why he was so enamored with looking at my face. They really were quite fitting in a fierce way,” I finish. Dani nods her assent, examining the portrait again.

“I want you to paint a portrait of me, just like this one – except now, we’ll see how I weathered through sixty-eight more years of being an old ornery crab,” I joke as I pull her back to the staging area I have created for her.

I sit on a soft sofa directly in front of her. She looks terribly nervous, biting her lip and fiddling with the hem of her shirt. She seems to give herself a little mental pep-talk, whispering inaudibly as she peruses the color choices and begins mixing options on the palate. Finally, her eyes move upward, appraising my face.

“Alright, let’s do it, then.” She says, picking up the palate and blending her first fluid stroke into the canvas.

* * *

 

It takes two more sittings before she is finished. Dani bids me not to peek at it in between our sessions and I obey like an eager child waiting for a precious gift. In the end, when the paint has dried, we stand together and admire it without speaking a word. As I set eyes on it for the first time, I feel my breath catch in my chest before an intense sense of pride rises from my belly. My grand-daughter painted this and somehow it is more beautiful than the original creation.

“Little gosling,” I breath out reverently as tears burst forth and gently carve paths around the apples of my cheeks.

“Oh, don’t cry Gran! What’s the matter?” She surges forward, hastily wiping her soft hands against my cheeks to catch the wayward drops of salty water.

I don’t answer for a moment, choosing instead to compose myself and look more intently at my image. Instead of the fierce girl of my youth, Dani has painted the striking woman of my present. Her vivid strokes have captured the arresting look of understanding and affection in my soft upturned lips, the depth of unshed pain in my eyes, the faded scars and the prominent wrinkles. My hair is no longer its deep ebony shade and my skin no longer quite as tan. In some way though, Dani has captured the very essence of me.

“It’s breath-taking Dani, truly,” I assure her, gripping her hands in my own, “Grandpa would weep just as I have, maybe even more. What a gift you have been given – what a gift.”

“Thank you Gran, for everything. For all that you’ve done, for everyone. I love you,” Dani whispers as she folds her small frame into my open arms. I feel a coolness as her own tears seep against my neck. We hold each other tightly for a few moments longer, bearing our burden for the man who left so much behind.

“I love you, little gosling, more than you could ever know.”


End file.
